


Cry If I Want To

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Birthday, Bitterness, Civil War Team Iron Man, Depression, Emotional Hurt, False Friends, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, It's me writing this, Loneliness, Past Child Abuse, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Really what did you expect?, Shitty Birthdays, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 09:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11033001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: For once, Tony Stark doesn't throw the party of the year. The recent years have taken up too much energy and he is tired. He spends his birthday alone instead.





	Cry If I Want To

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Michaelssw0rd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/gifts).



> She's the one who made me do this/gave me the inspiration. ♥
> 
> The title is from the song Pity Party by Melanie Martinez because I've had that stuck in my head while writing and so it kinda suits this fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: All I own are the typos.
> 
> Warnings: Alcoholism, past child abuse, mentions of casual sex

Pepper's laugh sounded strained over the speaker, wind from her end of the line distorting the sound. He used to adore her laugh. A part of him still did.

“Wonders will never cease! Tony Stark, not throwing a party that might flatten half the city. Not that I'm complaining, I definitely won't miss the lawsuits and insurance paperwork. You really are getting old!”

He clenched his hands in frustration at his own flinch. Even after all this time, alludes to places being flattened – especially if said places happened to be New York – didn't sit well with him.

There was a bite in Pepper's voice at her remark, subtle enough that she would never believe him to pick up on it, but she kept forgetting that he knew her as well as she him. Or perhaps she had simply never realised it, after all, he was a self-centred, narcissistic arsehole. Easy to fall into making assumptions.

He caught the eyes of his own, faint reflection in the window. They looked tired. The rings marring the fragile skin underneath them were so deep and dark that they too were all too visibly reflected. Before the fuck-up of cosmic dimensions now nicknamed the 'Civil War', he might have cracked a joke, thrown around some of the witty one-liners he was famous for. But he was tired. Not just the 'hungover and having spent four days in the lab without sleeping' kind of tired, but one that ran deeper. Deep enough to reach every last corner of the soul and the heart he was said not to possess. A kind of fatigue the dark circles didn't do justice.

So all he did was sigh. “Yeah.”, he confessed “Maybe I really am.”

A second of awkward silence was finally broken by his CEO clearing her throat. “Well, I have to go. You know, business calls.”

A part of him (probably the traitorous one that still made his heart speed up the tiniest bit when she laughed) wanted to ask her to talk to him for just a few more minutes. He was lucky enough that after everything, she was still his CEO and friend. There was only so much he could ask of her.

“Yeah, I remember. I have dreadful memories of that. Good night, Pep. Or whatever time it is wherever you are.” She was in Tokyo and it was 12.45pm over there, but he had appearances to maintain. At least her chuckle sounded less strained now.

“Good night, Tony. And don't get into any trouble.”

Another silence, one of the loud ones that underlined the absence of sound. A silence in place of the 'love you' they once would've ended their phone call with. As grateful as he was that they had managed to salvage their friendship, the residual bitterness and awkward moments between them were slow to fade. A soft tone informed him that the call had been disconnected.

He really shouldn't complain. Not with how preciously few friends he still had left. Not after learning that so many had never been his friends at all, that he'd only somehow deluded himself into believing otherwise. Another thing he really shouldn't was be surprised about that, but that didn't lessen the sting.

Fifteen minutes until midnight. New York City glittered at his feet behind the window, cars rushing here and there, painting parallel streaks of white and read over black concrete. Streetlights were reflected against the glass façades of the skyscrapers, lights switching on and off behind various windows. It really was the city that never slept, something about that was oddly reassuring after having seen it so badly damaged.

Fifteen minutes until his birthday. Over eight million people in this city, plus who knew how many tourists. And here he was, wallowing in self-pity over his own loneliness.

He could've gone about this as he had most of his adult life: Throw the party of the year, numb his senses with pounding music, filling the rooms of his chosen venue to the bursting with beautiful men and women dressed in revealing, glittering clothes, each of them dying for a chance to spend a few minutes hanging off his arm. He could have kept the loneliness hidden and the nightmares at bay with meaningless sex with those beautiful strangers.

But he was _tired_. The past few years had leached his energy, his very life out of his veins and instead of the potential of a moment's satisfaction, even the thought of his usual one-night-stands left him feeling dirty and cheap. Nothing against one-night-stands, there was its own meaning in seeking some simple pleasure with a stranger, but what he had always done was little more that whoring himself out. It was more akin to a business transaction. They bought the bragging rights that came with having fucked _the_ Tony Stark and paid him with a few hours of distraction from his own misery. Sex was nothing but the currency.

It wasn't enough. It had never been enough.

He finally turned away from the window and crossed the room to the elevator. Its doors slid open smoothly so that he didn't have to pause his steps. Ah, the blessings of technology.

“J.A. ...” He swallowed. His heart constricted painfully behind the mess of scars where his arc reactor used to be embedded. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., get me to the workshop, please.”

“ _Sure thing, boss.”_ He still hadn't managed to shake off the last of the instinctive feeling of wrongness at hearing the heavily Irish-accented woman's voice.

Of course he liked F.R.I.D.A.Y., her voice was pleasant and the attitude he'd programmed her with was refreshing, while she was still young and a bit rough around the edge, she was growing and learning. But he would never not miss J.A.R.V.I.S.

Out of all the things he had done, all the suffering he had caused and friends he had lost, all the things that cut into what was left of his soul, J.A.R.V.I.S.' loss cut the deepest. It probably shouldn't. A better man would probably grieve much more for the human lives lost, but as much as they weighed on his conscience and rightfully fuelled his nightmares, he was no better man. No hero. In his naivité, he'd thought J.A.R.V.I.S. was the one friend he'd never lose.

The elevator pinged, subtly redirecting his attention. Or rather, F.R.I.D.A.Y. made the elevator ping, it usually didn't do that. She really was learning.

Stepping out into his sanctuary, he instructed her to lock the workshop to anyone but himself, the only exception being a life-or-death emergency. His gaze landed on the pile that had been heaped onto one of the smaller desks. Greeting cards and small presents, the cards and wrapping simple but stylish. Formal. The usual, impersonal well-wishes from Stark Industries' business partners.

Walking over to another workbench to get a paper bin, he simply swept the cards into it with his arm, not bothering to read any of them. They all contained the same anyway: A formal, printed congratulation, the same message with perhaps two or three different phrasings, plus a haphazardly scribbled signature to give them the bare minimum of fake-personality required to fulfil this obligation. Not a single one of them was sent by someone who actually meant those empty words.

The gifts were from those who wrongly assumed kissing up to him would buy them any advantage in future dealings with SI. They were always one of three things: Watches, cigars, or overpriced booze. The booze he kept. A few of the cigars too, but most joined the cards. The expensive watches he'd hand out to lower SI employees over the coming few weeks.

That left him with the one actually useful gift. A set of state-of-the-art precision tools he'd bought for himself a week ago and resisted using until his birthday. The bright red ribbon he'd tied around it in a moment of alcohol-induced melancholy some time during that week seemed to be mocking him. At least he hadn't fully wrapped it, that would've been truly pathetic even for his standards.

Five more minutes until midnight. Without looking at the label he grabbed one of the bottles at random. There was now point in bothering with a glass, not tonight. There was no one around to put up a front of manners or pacing himself. By the taste he had grabbed some sinfully expensive scotch that was downright scandalous to drink directly from its bottle – he didn't care as long as it burned soothingly familiar down his throat.

He sunk to the floor next to his desk, his back leaning against it, and spent the next few minutes taking big gulps. He really didn't want to be sober for this. On the wall somewhere behind him the clock he didn't actually need – in the rare cases he did need and actually bothered to pay attention to the time, he could simply ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. or have her update him – ticked faintly. The only other sounds were his own breathing and the sloshing liquor in the bottle. He missed the faint hum and the glow of the reactor in his chest, it had always been oddly comforting. Maybe he should get one implanted back in there, for no other reason than to freak Pepper out, of course.

Five minutes later, the bottle of scotch was halfway empty and his head was filled with the familiar buzz of intoxication. The biggest clock hand made a slightly louder click.

“ _Happy birthday, boss.”_ F.R.I.D.A.Y. chirped quietly. So much for her learning.

Tony snorted to himself. _Happy_. Yeah, right. His birthdays hadn't been happy since Howard had given him a backhanded slap instead of the hug he'd asked for. Hadn't been happy since the phone in his room at boarding school hadn't rung until late in the evening and all he'd heard was Jarvis' apologetic voice. Hadn't been happy since one day, it hadn't rung at all. He hated his birthdays.

Feeling too mentally exhausted to do so, he didn't snap at his AI, just murmured a quiet “Thank you.”. It wasn't her fault after all.

The back of his hand hit painfully against the edge of his desk when he lifted it, uncoordinated. It would probably bruise, but he paid it no mind as he felt around the cool, smooth surface. Finally his fingers bumped into the box of tools. After a bit of groping to get a good grasp on it, he pulled it into his lap. Stared at the red ribbon marred with the occasional stain of engine grease and the uneven bow tied in the middle. Pathetic. But hell, it was his birthday, he was allowed to be as pathetic as he damn well pleased.

Pulling at one end, the sleek strip of fabric easily fell away, most of it slipping between his legs, one end of it hanging over his left one. The box itself was simple and black, high-quality carbon fibre.

“Happy fucking birthday to me.” he spoke bitterly into the silent room.

The amount of liquid in his bottle decreased steadily. At one point he carefully opened the box to take out one of the tiny screwdrivers, twirling it between his scarred fingers. Buzzed at he was and for once not on the verge of a panic attack, his hands were steady as a surgeon's.

Nonetheless he almost dropped it at the sudden vibration in his pocket. For a moment, he just stared, puzzled and a bit disoriented, – he was probably drunker than he thought, he usually was – until he realised that he kept his phone in that pocket. Weird. He'd blocked all the arse-kissing business numbers for today.

Putting the delicate tool carefully back into its place in its box, he pulled his phone out, glancing at the caller ID. He really should know better than to get excited, but still he felt the corner of his lips twitch upwards. He hadn't gotten a real birthday call in ages!

The display read _Mean Green Mother_ – though he was sure the man wouldn't appreciate the _Little Shop of Horrors_ reference. It _was_ a bit insensitive, but the caller didn't have to know. Besides, he was Tony Stark, as everyone knew, insensitivity was his thing.

“Hey Brucie-bear, d'you miss me?”

An exasperated sigh was his answer. “No, but what I do miss is the three dozen water filtration systems you promised to donate to this area, that were supposed to arrive yesterday but _didn't_.” For Banner's standards, he sounded highly irritated.

Not a social call then. (Not a _birthday_ call.) Tony swallowed his disappointment. Really, he should have known better. And after all, Bruce had a better sense of priorities than him, so maybe he'd just say something later, after discussing matters of actual importance.

“Yeah, I know, I'm sorry. I meant to call you about that. There's been a raw material delivery error during the production, that caused the delay, but I already took care of it. The shipment went out yesterday and should reach you first thing the day after tomorrow.”

Another sigh. “Tony, I know problems like this aren't your world, but this is important! Things like that can't happen! People rely on fresh drinking water, you have no idea what the people here go through just to get water that isn't completely infested! You don't know how some...”

Guilt swept over him. Here he was, upset over not being wished a happy birthday when out there people were dying because they had no clean water. But Bruce was wrong about one thing, he had seen those problems first hand. He'd been there as Iron Man, helping with the first wave of relief efforts after natural disasters. He'd been there as Tony Stark, funding various humanitarian programs. But he knew that if he were to say so, Banner would only dismiss his words without listening, only believing in the façade of the Merchant of Death he'd presented to the world for so long.

Oh what the hell. It was his birthday, just this once he could allow himself to get angry, couldn't he? That could be his gift to himself.

“Look, Bruce, what do you want me to say? There was an error, these things happen! I know it's important! I know it _shouldn't_ happen! But it did happen and I already took care of it. The shipment is already on its way. So would you _please_ stop acting like I personally ordered the delay?”

This time it wasn't so much a sigh and more of a growl that answered him. “I think I should hang up now. Goodbye, Tony.”

Dial tone.

He listened to the monotonous sound for a few seconds before slowly lowering his hand, shutting off the display with the writing informing him that the call had been disconnected and set the device down next to him carefully.

Then he gripped the half-empty, overpriced bottle of scotch and hurled it against the opposite wall with all his strength. The shattering of the glass seemed too loud in the otherwise silent workshop. Amber liquid sprayed in the air amongst the flying shards. They glittered in the overhead lights like the windows of New York's rebuilt skyscrapers at night. The impact was strong enough to let some of them reach him, but he barely felt the cuts.

“Happy birthday, Tony! Oh why thank you, Bruce, how nice of you to remember instead of lecturing me about the world being a gigantic shithole in a way that for once actually isn't my fault.” he snarled sarcastically into the empty room.

The thick scar tissue on his chest ached. He really should have known better than to expect anything. That he was disappointed was his own damn fault, he had already learned that their friendship had only ever been one-sided. Just like with the rest of the Avengers. He should've realised it from the beginning.

Acting on an impulse, he climbed to his feet, placed his tool box back on top of the desk and ripped open the desk's upper drawer. After digging for a minute, his hands found the piece of paper he'd been looking for, had spent hours upon hours staring at, hoping the sharp ache of betrayal would dull with time. It hadn't.

Grabbing a lighter, he made his way over to the workshop's spacious balcony that doubled as his launching platform for test flights. The moment the glass doors slid open, the silence was finally broken and he was embraced by the polluted New York air, the rush of traffic and sounds of horns from below roaring in his ears.

The wind ruffled his hair and the paper crinkled in his hands when he unfolded it for the last time. One last time, he read the hollow, condescending words of Steve Roger's non-apology, finally permitting himself to feel the full force of his own anger and betrayal at reading them. His hold on the thin material tightened and his heart – the one he did possess, contrary to everyone's opinion – pounded with pain and fury beneath his scars.

All the other years, he'd had the most colourful and elaborate fireworks lighting up the sky, but this year, this would stand in for them. He watched the small flame of his lighter flicker and take hold of the paper, eat away this insult of an apology. He stretched his hand out over the security-glass-and-chrome balustrade and watched the wind sweep away the remaining ashes. He watched the embers fall and sparkle among the scenery before they burnt out.

He was okay. He was Tony Stark, Iron Man, Merchant of Death. Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. He didn't need true friends, people to talk to, birthday wishes and sincere apologies after betrayal.

And so what if all that was a lie? It was his birthday, he was allowed to lie to himself. Just this once. Just for today.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it despite it not being all too cheerful? I'd be thrilled about every comment!!!!!
> 
> Sry about the bit of Bruce bashing, I used to like him but after he fell asleep when Tony finally managed to open up about his past a bit to him? And how annoyed he acted at that? Yeah, no. That is impressively bad manners.


End file.
